


Rescue

by orphan_account



Series: Fiddauthor Coffee Shop AU [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Angst, Fiddauthor Coffee Shop AU, Hobo Stan, M/M, Not as much fluff as promised, Prostitution mention, Suicidal Ideation, The Yours and Mine Cafe, a bit of blood, oh well, rape mention, violence mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-18 02:43:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9362678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Fiddleford meets a strangely familiar homeless man on his walk home from the cafe. When something drastic happens a few weeks later, Fiddleford needs to call on his boyfriend. Who knew it would open up a whole new box of drama?This fic has been edited 1.17.17





	1. Rescue

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, warnings for blood here, might get a little more adult in the next chapter.  
> I promise you'll get some fluff after this fic.  
> Follow fiddauthorcoffeeshop.tumblr.com to see all the details on this AU.  
> This fic has been edited a bunch!

“Alright, hon. Yep, I’ll see you in an hour….No, no, you’ll be fine!...I love you….Mm-hm. Bye.”

Fiddleford hung up his phone. “Now that that’s settled….”

It was about eight in the evening in November. The sky was dark and a couple stars glittered above the Yours and Mine Cafe, where the young college student worked.

“I’ll see ya, Annie,” he said, waving to his boss as he hung up his apron and shrugged his grey felt coat on over his dark grey polo.

“Bye, Fidds,” she replied with a smile.

The door chimed happily as it swung open, then closed.

He began to head home to his apartment on the other side of the campus, already excited to see his boyfriend, maybe play some first-person shooter games together. The college student was halfway home when he saw something unusual: a homeless man on the sidewalk. He sat there miserably, holding a rain-stained cardboard sign that read, “PLEASE GIVE MONEY FOR FOOD AND GAS.” A battered baseball cap sat beside him with a couple quarters sitting forlornly inside.

The southerner took one glance at him and said, “I don’t have much money on me right now, but if you want, I can get ya somethin’ to eat.”

The hobo looked up at him with wide, hungry, shadowed eyes. “Please?” His voice was hoarse. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen, poor guy. Looked kinda like Ford.

Fiddleford gave the man a tight smile before running off again. He headed straight for the pizza place around the corner and paid for two huge slices, then returned to the hobo. “Here you are,” he said cheerily, sitting down beside him. He tried to ignore how badly he smelled.

“Oh, my god,” the homeless guy breathed, and began to inhale the food.

“Hey, now, careful there,” Fiddleford warned with a laugh. “Don’t want to throw it up. Slow down, hon.”

The man looked back up at him again, then nodded and slowed down.

“That’s it. You new here?”

A nod.

“Got shelter?”

Another nod.

“Good. I’ve gotta go, but be here tomorrow, okay?” Fiddleford stood up.

Yet another nod. He finished the first slice.

“Name’s Fiddleford,” the southerner added, sticking out a hand.

“Stan.” The man grasped it. He had a good handshake.

“Alright, Stan. I’ll see ya tomorrow!” Fiddleford turned and walked the rest of the way home, feeling light but surprisingly heavy.

*

_ Ding. _ The little bell above the door chimed as Fiddleford walked into the Y and M the next day at precisely 10:50 am. “Morning, Annabelle!” he called to a chubby, grinning woman behind the counter.

Annabelle Fukui was always grinning. Her round face seemed to light up the whole atmosphere of the small golden-lit cafe. Her pink-painted nails always managed to find their way around a donut or a cookie while she worked, but nobody ever bothered to tell her to stop. “She’s  _ Annabelle, _ ” somebody would reply if the fact was pointed out. That statement always seemed to end an argument.

Sometimes, a customer would be able to meet her parents--her mother, ginger and plump and cheery, and her father, short and thin and dark-haired, who only spoke in Japanese. There was a rumor that Annabelle was just a “man in drag,” but everyone at the cafe assured these customers that she was, in fact, a woman. Perhaps not a... _ typical _ woman, but a woman nonetheless.

“Good morning, Fidds!” she replied. “How are you?”

“Wonderful, thank you. Many customers this morning?”

“As always,” she chuckled. “But not your boyfriend yet.”

“I think he’s in his Physics II class today. It’s his only morning class this week.”

“Sounds like him. Put on your apron and get back here, we’ve got people to serve.”

A few hours later, when Fiddleford was on break, he took a step outside to smoke and look for Stan. He wasn’t there--perhaps he was somewhere else in town? Yes, that would make sense, he decided. No need to worry.

He didn’t show up that day, or the next. Fiddleford was starting to get worried. His boyfriend didn’t understand, but he hadn’t seen Stan that first time. Didn’t see the haunted look in his eyes, didn’t see the sharp cheekbones under the stubble-grey skin, didn’t see the desperate glee that covered his face when he was offered a meal.

Then, finally, he was there again. Filled with an immense relief when he saw the homeless man, Fiddleford grinned and walked over. “Stan! How’ve you been?”

Stan looked up at Fiddleford, and the color drained from the southerner’s face. “Oh, my lord,” he breathed, “you look--” he stopped himself. It would probably be rude to say ‘you look like shit.’ “I mean, hey. Do you want...I can see if we still have the dregs from the homebrew back at the coffee shop. You look like you could use some caffeine.”

Stan nodded.

“Alright. I’ll be right back. Don’t you go anywhere, alright?”

Stan nodded, and Fiddleford ran.

“Annie! Annie, we still got some homebrew left?”

The girl turned to Fiddleford. Her almond-shaped eyes reflected the sunlight even as they crinkled up to smile at him. “I think so, why?”

“I found a man in need of some help. I thought some coffee would warm him up. It’s November, Annie.”

“Of course. Fidds, you’re too good for this world.” His coworker turned and poured the last of the homebrew into a cup, dumped a sugar packet in, and stuck a lid on top before handing it to Fiddleford with her pudgy, pink-taloned hands. “Here you are, hon,” she grinned. “Then you better get home, Stanford must be getting impatient.”

Fiddleford couldn’t help but smile at the mention of his boyfriend’s name. “I bet he is. Thank you so much, Annie, you’re a wonderful help.”

“No problem. Now get outta here.” She waved him towards the door. “I’ve gotta close up the Y and M.”

“Okay--bye,” Fiddleford called as he walked out the door.

Once he was outside, he walked briskly back to where Stan still sat, shivering slightly. “Here you are,” Fiddleford said gently, holding out the cup for the man.

Stan looked at the pink-and-blue cup like it was manna from heaven. “Thanks,” he mumbled before taking a huge sip. He sighed with happiness and closed his eyes.

Fiddleford sat down next to Stan again and folded his long legs, so nobody would trip on them. He didn’t look at Stan. “So,” he said after a moment, “got any family I can call?”

“Nope.”

“None at all?”

A pause. “Not sure I can call them family anymore is all.”

“Ah.” A long silence. “You wanna come live with me? I’ve got space in my apartment.”

Stan cringed. “Nah. I’m fine.”

Fiddleford shrugged. He wasn’t about to pressure Stan into something he wasn’t comfortable with. “Alright.” He checked his phone. “Would you look at the time! I have to go, my boyfriend was expecting me ten minutes ago, but I figured I could spend some time chatting. Have a nice day!”

“You too, man,” Stan replied with a half-smile. He nursed his coffee. “And thanks again.”

“My pleasure.” Fiddleford waved and continued his trip home.

*

It was an entire week later when Fiddleford next saw Stan.

It was bad. It was...really bad. That chilly, rainy day, Stan actually stumbled into the Y and M in the middle of Fiddleford’s shift, ignored the protests of customer and staff alike, and headed straight to where Fiddleford stood at the counter. “F...Fiddleford,” Stan gasped. “I...help.”

He collapsed, unable to stand.

Fiddleford darted out from behind the counter. “Stan! Stan, are you awake? Stan, stay with me. Come on, let’s get up...what happened to your coat? Your shoes? Oh, dear lord you’re soaking wet….” He took Stan’s arm and looped it over his shoulders, then hoisted the man up. He was entirely too light. The barista noticed a large blotch of blood on Stan’s left leg, and another on his belly. He tried to ignore the one on the seat of Stan’s threadbare jeans. “You’re coming home with me right now,” he said. “Annie! I’ve gotta get this guy some help!”

“Do what you need to do, sweetie,” she replied, her eyes wide. “I’ll get Seth to cover for you.”

“Thanks so much.” The pair staggered out the door and into the rain. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Fiddleford kept saying, “I wish you didn’t have to walk in the rain like this, I’m sorry….”

Stan groaned. “‘S okay. Had...worse.”

“Stan...what happened to you?”

Fiddleford felt the man’s entire body tense and stumble forward. “Accident, ‘sall,” Stan mumbled. It wasn’t very convincing.

“All...alright.”

They kept going. The rain poured down. Stan’s movements grew weaker. Fiddleford’s body wearied. “Almost there. Come on, you can do it,” he muttered, half to Stan and half to himself.

When he finally found himself at the door to the apartment complex, he sighed in relief. “Okay. We can take an elevator up to my floor. Let’s go.”

Inside the elevator, Stan sagged against one wall and Fiddleford the other. “‘M sorry,” Stan muttered after a period filled only with their frigid, panting breaths. “Shouldn’t have...disturbed things like that.”

“You’re fine.”

_ Ding. _ “Now let’s get you warmed up and dried off, and take care of all that blood.” He gave a tentative smile, and Stan responded by slinging his arm over his friend’s shoulders again and making a massive effort to support himself as they maneuvered towards Fiddleford’s door. It wasn’t locked, so the southerner just stepped inside.

Stan collapsed in the nearest chair, panting hard. “Hurts….”

“I know. Let’s take care of those wet clothes first.”

“No….”

“Relax. They’re old anyway. I can lend you some of my boyfriend’s stuff, you’re about the same build. You can get out of that stuff, then I’ll take care of where it’s bleeding and you can take a bath and a nap.”

Stan stubbornly shook his head. “Don’t want you to see me….”

Fiddleford frowned.  _ It seems I have to call for backup. _ “Give me a sec, hon, I’ll be right back.”

He walked into the next room, fished his phone from his pocket, and dialed his boyfriend. “Hello? Stanford Pines.”

“Darlin’? We’ve got a bleedin’ hobo here who looks just like you. Could you come help, please? He won’t listen to me.”

“Hey, you’re better than me at talking to people...what do you mean, ‘looks just like you’?”

“I mean, his face is almost the same as yours!”

He heard his boyfriend gasp, then the phone dropped to the floor with a clatter and a burst of static. “Ford?”

Distantly, he could hear Ford exclaim, “Stanley!”

*

_ You’re better than me at talking to people, _ Ford had said. Well, Fiddleford sure hoped that was true. He had several minutes before Ford could make it over there, so instead, he walked back out into his tiny living area where Stan still sat, shivering and wet, on a small blue loveseat. “Stan,” he said as gently as he could, crouching a little so he didn’t loom over the homeless man too much. “Stan, I need you to get out of your clothing. You could get sick--sicker than you are--and I need to assess the damage done to your body.”

Stan actually cracked a smile. “You sound just like my brother. A nerd.”

Fiddleford returned the smile weakly. “I think you’d like my boyfriend, then, if you like ‘nerdy’ talk. He’s somethin’.”

“Oh, really? What’s ‘is name?”

“Stanford, but he wanted me to call him Ford. It’s funny, ‘cause that’s the nickname I used to go by. I offered to call him Stan, but he wasn’t very comfortable with that. So I compromised. Calls me ‘Fidds’.”

“S-Stanford? Stanford  _ Pines? _ ”

“Y-yes. Do you know each other?”

Stan laughed harshly. “Know each other? We’re brothers! Twins, actually. Or...we were, at least.”

Fiddleford’s mouth dropped open. “Twins--how did I not think of that?”

“‘Cause it was unlikely we’d turn up together here, and you didn’t want to think about Ford’s brother being a hobo who couldn’t even ask him for help.”

“W-why--”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Alright...do you want to get a bath first?” Fiddleford decided a subject change was in order.

A small smile. “Yeah. That sounds amazing.”

“Bathroom’s through there.” Fiddleford pointed down a short, dim hallway. “Need help?”

“Uh...yeah. Just to get there. I can handle it from there.”

“Okay.” Supporting Stan, the pair managed to sloppily make it to the bathroom. “Shout if you need anything, alright?”

“Gotcha.” Stan flashed an obviously-fake grin and shut the door.

Fiddleford waited tensely on his little loveseat for his boyfriend to arrive. “C’mon, hon,” he muttered, taking off his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose wearily. “I can’t do this without ya.”

As if on cue, the door burst open and there stood Ford, panting, dripping wet, and frantic. “What happened?” he gasped, leaning against the doorframe. “Is it...Stanley?”

“I don’t know. He wants me to call ‘im Stan. He’s skinny as a straw and fell over like a newborn colt when he came into the Y and M. Poor fella’s been through...well, a lot, I think.”

Ford’s face went very pale and very drawn. He sunk slowly into the seat next to Fiddleford and looked down at his six-fingered hands. “My brother was kicked out of the house two years ago for sabotaging my way to West Coast Tech. He did this to himself. It wouldn’t be like this if he wasn’t so...selfish.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

Fiddleford stretched out a hand to touch Ford’s dripping shoulder but decided against it. “We’ll work this out,” he said instead.

They heard the shower start, the sound of water not masking the immediate, quiet noises of somebody crying but trying to hide it. Ford crumpled. “Oh, God,” he whimpered.

Fiddleford decided now was the time to gather his boyfriend into his arms and hold him, so he did, rocking back and forth and making quiet shushing noises to still Ford’s sniffling sobs. He considered telling Ford about his day in the Y and M to keep his mind off of his twin, but decided that would be insensitive. So instead he asked quietly, “Do you think you’ll be able to handle seeing him?”

His boyfriend cringed. “I don’t know.”

The shower kept running. The apartment was quiet. Everything felt a little chilly, even though Fiddleford had the heat on way higher than his bill normally permitted. It was like the two brothers had created a frigid atmosphere at the moment of their reconvergence. Fiddleford shivered a little. Twins were a scientific oddity he never wanted to study.

The moment the water stopped, Ford’s entire body tensed. He sat there rigidly, half-propped up by Fiddleford who watched the bathroom door.

When it swung open, a cloud of steam curled out like the tendrils of some ghostly eldritch beast. “Hey, uh, Fiddlesticks,” Stan’s voice said, “I need a little help.”

“Wait here,” Fiddleford whispered to his boyfriend before getting up. An arm was slung over his shoulder and then the pair staggered out into the hall. “Were you okay in there?” he muttered to Stan. “You took a long time.”

“Eh,” Stan replied easily, “tryin’ to take a shower with only one leg, and that one’s shakin’ somethin awful...not exactly the easiest way to go about things.”

Fiddleford nodded. “He’s here,” he added quietly, stopping before the end of the hallway. “Just thought I’d warn ya. He’s not...taking it very well, either.” The southerner reached up his free hand to rub at the bridge of his long nose. “You sure you can do this?”

“Yeah, sure,” Stan smiled. He didn’t meet his friend’s eyes. “How bad can a reunion be?”

“Pretty bad,” Fiddleford muttered before taking the first step into the miniature living room.

And Stan froze. Fiddleford looked up to see the man staring at his twin brother like...well, like he’d just found his long-estranged twin brother. “Stanford?” Stan finally managed to say.

Fiddleford’s eyes flicked to his boyfriend.

“S-Stanley,” Ford choked. “Stanley, what--you’re hurt, you’re...so thin, are you...what happened?” His head dropped to his chest. “What did I do?”

Stan wrenched himself out of Fiddleford’s grip and stumbled over to his brother, flinging himself beside the college student. “Ford, Stanford, it’s not your fault,” he said with a half-smile. “I knew you’d blame yourself, though, you drama queen.” He flung his arms around his brother. “I’m just...glad I found you before something really crazy happened.”

“But something really crazy  _ did _ happen!” Ford wailed. “Look at you! You’re bleeding out onto Fidds’ couch!” He paused, then his eyes grew very large. “Stanley, you’re bleeding out onto Fidds’ couch.” He stretched out a hand.

“Oh, sorry, I don’t want to stain--” Stan began, standing up.

Standing up too fast.

Falling over.

“Stanley? Stanley!”

Ford knelt beside his twin, shaking his shoulder, and trying to hold back the tears that started when his brother didn’t respond.

_ His brother didn’t respond. _


	2. Conflict and Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where things get resolved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOPS! I had to add new tags! Poor Stan's been through a lot.

_ “Stanley.” _ It was dark. Why was it dark?

_ “Stanley?” _

_ “Huh. Coulda sworn I saw him move.” _

He tried to blink. Oh, his eyes were closed. His head ached. Slowly, blearily, he opened his eyes.

“See, I told ya he was coming around. Don't ever doubt a McGucket,” a southern voice said. “Now go. Get out of here. I’ll tell ya when it’s safe.”

“Hmmm?” Stan asked eloquently.

“What's that, sugar?”

“Where…?”

“Still in my apartment, hon. Wasn't too hard to pick y’up and put ya in bed.”

“Oh…” Stan tried to sit up.

“Don't do that, you lost a lot of blood. On top of being half-starved. And sick with a 101 degree plus fever. Don't want ya blackin’ out again.”

“Sorry.” He laid back again.

“Stan, what happened to you?” Fiddleford asked again. “I can't help ya if ya don't say anything.”

“Told you. Accident.” Stan wanted to cry. But he didn't.

“It wasn't an accident, Stanley Pines.”

“What--”

“Stan...How could an accident leave you with thirty-six perfect tally marks gouged into your left leg?” The question was gentle but that just made Stan want to cry even more.

“Haven't you figured it out?” Stan mumbled.

_ Long hours in a closet in the dark, wondering if he’d ever see light again before he heard the door open-- “Hola,  _ puta _ ,” said the Man and he struggled struggled fought bit but it was no use and it burned, it burned…. _

_ “One more push...good  _ puta, _ ” the Man said and it was sickening and the knife scratched a number into his flesh and everything hurt but it didn’t matter because everything had always hurt…. _

_ He was free from the eternity and there had been so many Men but he ran and he made it and he had to find his only friend…. _

“It hurts,” he whimpered, rolling onto his side and curling up.

There was a long, tense silence in the room. Then, “Your brother’s out in my living room. D’you want to talk to him?”

“No. Want to sleep.”

“He’s worried sick about ya.”

“Let him worry. Never cared before.”

Fiddleford was a little startled. Ford? Not caring? That was nearly as unusual as Fiddleford himself saying an unkind word. “Stanley, I’m sure he cares about you.”

“His fault I’m here.”

“...What?”

“It’s  _ his fault,” _ Stan repeated emphatically, then curled up even tighter and mumbled, “Not his fault. My fault. He’s good. I’m bad. Always bad. He’s good. My fault, my fault….”

Fiddleford didn’t want to get involved in family drama he didn’t understand, but Stan was his boyfriend’s brother, and he was family now, too. So he placed a gentle hand on Stan’s shoulder, earning a flinch and a whimper. “Sorry. I’m not...not gonna hurt ya.

“Stanley, I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what you did, and I don’t know what he did. I can’t solve your problems. But I  _ can _ bring Stanford in here, and I can let you two talk. Because you’re twins, and you’re not supposed to be apart. Especially not...not like this.”

The room was silent except for the sound of Stan’s breathing, heavy and fast and sometimes catching. Fiddleford rubbed a hand along Stan’s back.

They sat like that for several minutes. Finally, Stan murmured, “Alright. He can come in.”

Fiddleford’s hand lingered for half a second on Stan’s shoulder before he stood and left the room.

“Stanford, he wants to see you.”

Ford stood, his face pale, worried, sad, and...scared? That last emotion made Fiddleford grab his boyfriend’s hand. “It’ll be fine.” He kissed Ford’s cheek. “You’ll see.”

Ford nodded and walked into the room. The door closed with a certain finality.

* * *

The atmosphere in the room was quiet and very, very tense. A certain chill hung in the air. “Stanley?” Ford said with only the slightest hesitation. “What--happened to you?”

“Why do you care?” His voice was muffled but broken.

“Because you’re my brother,” Ford whispered.

“Never stopped you before.”

“I...Stanley--”

“You’ll hate me.”

“What?”

“If I tell you. You’ll hate me, if...if you don’t already.”

“Why would I--”

“I’m bad. I’m a bad brother, a bad son, a bad friend….I’m the worst person you could ever associate yourself with.”

“Stanley--”

“You shouldn’t have to see me. I bet it hurts so much. I don’t want you to hurt, you’re too good….”

“...Stanley?”

Stan finally rolled back over on his back to look over at his brother. What he saw was the nine-year-old boy who’d just been called a freak. What he saw was the twelve-year-old who was just called a genius. What he saw was his best friend and his worst enemy all mashed together into an awkward, pale, teary-eyed young man who looked like he was both ready to bolt for the door and lunge at Stanley. “Stanley, I….”

“I’m sorry,” Stan choked. “I’m sorry I broke your project. I’m sorry I ruined your life. I’m sorry I made you have to go to this shit school and give up your dreams and….” He gasped for breath as his lungs constricted with despair. “I’m sorry I’m such a terrible person, I’m sorry, I’m sorry….” He curled back into himself again, shaking. His words were muffled now but Ford could still understand what he was saying. “I’m sorry I’m dirty, I’m sorry I killed people, I’m sorry I fought, I’m sorry I didn’t die….”

Ford stood up abruptly. “Stanley, stop!” he almost shouted. And then he crumpled back into the chair beside the bed and mashed his face into the palms of his hands and sobbed, “Stop. Please.”

They both cried quietly, together but alone, for what felt like an eternity.

When Stan steadied his breathing, he rolled back over to face Ford. “I...sold myself. On the streets. A lot. One of my old clients...well, he’d been more than my client I guess...he came back for me. He found me, and he and his friends….” He gulped. “Thirty-six times before I got away. That’s why there’s so many...tallies. On my leg.”

Ford looked up at his brother with wet, red eyes. “Oh, my God,” he mumbled, and threw himself at his brother. Stan flinched but Ford had already caught him up in a hug more intense than that time when somebody had cornered Ford in an alley with a knife and threatened to cut off his fingers and Stan had saved him and hugged him to soothe his panic. This hug was more intense than that.

Stan just sat there as Ford gripped him tight to his heaving body, as Ford cried silently into his bare shoulder, as Ford whispered apologies that were probably lies because he’d never done anything wrong except for being his brother.

* * *

When Ford emerged from the bedroom again an hour later, he went straight to Fiddleford and hugged him tight. Neither said a word at the moment, but Fiddleford sighed and rubbed his boyfriend’s back soothingly. Ford sniffled a few times as he collected his emotions.

“Hey,” Fiddleford said when Ford seemed to have calmed down, “you want me to make you some tea?”

Ford nodded.

“I’ll make chamomile. Is that okay?”

Another nod.

“Alright. You sit here and wait for me to get back. Get out of your wet clothes awhile, I have some extras set out for you.”

He turned and headed for his little kitchen.

“Wait,” Ford called softly. Fiddleford turned with a small smile. “Um...make some for Stanley, too?”

Fiddleford actually grinned. “Of course. I think he’d love that.” And he disappeared into the other room.

Ford shrugged out of his wet clothes and slipped his dry ones on on autopilot.  _ He’s here he’s here he’s actually here what do I do what do I  _ say _ I’m an awful brother I just let him get kicked out-- _

_ But he sabotaged my future and crushed my dreams I was going to have a life I was going to be something I was going to shake off my past and give myself a future my six fingers wouldn’t matter I would be somebody-- _

_ But that’s not what happened he’s here he’s here he was bleeding didn’t you see don’t you understand you ass he’s here and he’s hurting and he almost died and it’s your fault you let him get kicked out you let him leave you you’re twins you’re twins other half other half other half other half-- _

_ His own fault his own fault his own fault his own fault he did this to himself he did this to himself he did this to himself his own fault his own fault his own fault his own fault he did this to himself he did this to himself he did this to himself-- _

“Here ya’are sweetheart, some nice chamomile tea for you.” The gentle southern voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “I’ll take some in for Stan, then, too, then I’ll sit with ya.”

Ford nodded as his boyfriend nudged open Stan’s door, walked in, and closed it quietly.

There was the sound of muted voices as Fiddleford said something and Stan responded. Fiddleford said something a little louder, a little more forcefully. Stan responded in his same flat tone. There was a silence from the other side of the door. Then Fiddleford said something very quietly and left the room, shutting the door behind him. He stood there for a moment, sighed sadly, and joined Ford once more in the living room. “He’s gonna need a lot of healin’,” he said. “There’s some things that take a long time to scar over.”

Ford nodded slowly. “Do you...think he’ll want to see me again?”

“You can try, but he won’t talk to ya.”

Ford nodded again. “I’ll go back in.”

He stood, more determined than last time, and confidently entered the bedroom. But as soon as he closed the door, he deflated and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. “Hi, Stanley,” he said softly. “Did you want your tea?”

No response.

“Alright, that’s okay. Do you want to talk to me?”

Still no response.

“That’s okay, too. Um…” he thought. “Remember when we were little, and when one of us had a nightmare the other would climb into bed with them?”

Stan shifted slightly under the blankets, like a shrug.

Ford hesitated, then carefully lifted the blankets and slipped under the covers, laying on his side beside his brother and making sure to keep a little bit of distance between them. Letting Stan decide.

Stan moved back a little bit after an initial shiver of fear. This was his brother. He was safe.

Ford, in response, moved closer, gently draping an arm over his twin protectively. And even though it was only nine in the evening, they both soon fell asleep.

* * *

Until Fiddleford shook Ford’s shoulder and whispered, “Sweetheart, you haveta get up.”

“...Mmmh?”

“Classes! Come on, we have to get ya out the door!”

Ford sat straight up in bed, yanking off the covers and thus also waking up his twin. “Oh, my God!” he exclaimed. “And I have a test in Physics today!”

“Huh?” Stan mumbled, blinking. “Wha’ happen?” He looked at Ford, who had leapt out of bed and was proceeding to try to both comb his hair and change his shirt at the same time. “Sixer?”

Ford froze. It had been so long since he’d heard that nickname….

“ _ Stanford! You’re going to be late!” _ Fiddleford shouted.

“Coming! Sorry!” Ford shouted.

“What is he, your mother?” Stan mumbled.

“My boyfriend. I need to go. I’ll see you after school, Stan. Feel better!” Ford called as he dashed from the room, grabbing a small grey bookbag and yanking on his shoes as he stumbled out the door.

“Wait, Stanford, before you go!” Fiddleford said urgently as Ford put a hand on the apartment’s doorknob. The southerner put a hand under Ford’s chin, gently kissed him, then yanked the door open and practically shoved the student out. “Go!”

Stan rubbed his eyes, sitting up in bed. “What about you, Fiddlenerd?” he muttered. “Don’t you have school or something, too?”

“Skipping classes today so I could look after a certain somebody,” the man grinned. “Oh, that reminds me, how are you feeling?”

“Everything hurts. But like I could eat a...what are those big horse things with the long necks?”

“A giraffe?”

“Yeah, that. Feel like I could eat...four of ‘em. At once.”

Fiddleford laughed. “Well, I can’t get you giraffes, that’s illegal--but I can make you some frozen waffles.”

Stan’s eyes grew huge. “Oh, my God. Really?”

“Yeah, of course.” Fiddleford smiled again. “I’ll get that for you. And some painkillers.”

“Thanks.” Stan gave a slight smile. “You’re the greatest.”

“Ah, horsefeathers,” Fiddleford laughed. “Just doin’ what my momma taught me to do.”

“Makes you better’n me,” Stan muttered. “Least you listened to your mom.”

“Aw, hon, don't be like that. Ya did what ya had to.”

“You don't know what I had to do.” Stan’s voice began to take on its previous flat edge, something Fiddleford did not fail to detect.

“Alright, hon, none of that. Let's get some food and medicine in ya and then we can talk.”

Stan nodded.

A few long-legged steps brought the lanky southerner into his kitchen. He stuck a couple frozen eggos into the microwave and waited for the timer to go off. As the appliance sang, he thought.  _ What can I do to help the poor guy out? Should I take him to the hospital? Get him some therapy? Goodness, I don’t know how to help a rape victim. _ He paused.  _ What would I do if Theo was… _ He shuddered, then continued.  _ What would I do if my brother was assaulted? Horrifying, but...what would be the best way to help him recover? _ He thought about it.  _ Don’t know. I’ll ask Annie later. _

The microwave stopped with a sickly clatter. He really needed a new one; this one was probably diseased. “Lukewarm waffles, comin’ right up,” he muttered, cursing at the appliance as he retrieved his guest’s meal. “Hey, Stan?” he called from the kitchen. “How do you like ‘em?”

“Just give ‘em to me!”

Fiddleford grinned. “Alright. Might not be as warm as y’like, though.”

“I really don’t care.”

Fiddleford snagged a bottle of acetaminophen bills from the counter as he passed and headed for the bedroom. “I’ll be right back with a glass of water for ya,” he said as he handed Stan the plate and set the pills on the small nightstand, and walked out again.

When he came back again, he carried a banjo in one hand and the glass in the other. After giving Stan the glass, he sat down in the wicker chair in the corner and began to tune up the instrument. The homeless man began to wolf down his breakfast, and Fiddleford began to play.

His fingers flew across the strings, plucking out an intricate melody and humming along before starting to sing. The lyrics were sweet and certain, unwavering in their devotion, and it was obvious to whom it was addressed.

_ “...Your hands, your hands _ __  
_ Are works of art _ __  
_ Your hands, your hands _ _  
_ __ They hold my heart

_ Your eyes, your eyes _ __  
_ Encase my soul _ __  
_ Your eyes, your eyes _ _  
_ __ Make me feel whole

_ Your laugh, your laugh _ __  
_ It brings me joy _ __  
_ Your laugh, your laugh _ _  
_ __ Makes me your boy

_ I don’t know how you’re so perfect _ __  
_ I don’t know how you’re so right _ __  
_ I don’t know how you’re so perfect _ _  
_ __ But I can’t let you out of my sight.”

Stan listened as the southerner sang. When the song finished, he immediately moved on to another one.

_ “Well, I saw you in a cafe _ __  
_ With your head stuck in a book _ __  
_ I knew you were my soulmate _ _  
_ __ From the moment that I looked

_ Who am I without you, baby _ __  
_ Who am I without you, baby _ __  
_ Who am I without you, baby _ _  
_ __ I’m nothin’ but a man.”

“Woah,” Stan said when Fiddleford finished the song. “You write that?”

“Hmmm? Oh, yeah.” Fiddleford grinned. “I really love him,” he added with a lovestruck smile. “He’s amazin’.”

“He--he is, isn’t he?” Stan agreed.

“Oh, yeah. Handsome, well-read, good singer, loves stargazin’--everythin’ I love in a guy.” He chuckled quietly, a soft hum of adoration, before continuing. “He’s not perfect, of course--but neither am I. And I guess that makes us both perfect, in our own way.” He strummed a chord, idly picking at the strings. “How about you? Got anybody?”

“Eh, nah. Never had time.” Stan shrugged. “I’m...glad, for you both. He deserves somebody like you.”

Fiddleford raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, you make him happy. And you’re...real good. You’re just a real good person and I’m glad he has somebody as great as you to love him.” Stan didn’t make eye contact.

Fiddleford was silent for a moment, then he went back to quietly playing. “There’s a lot of people what say that about me,” he said after a bit. “Say I’m too good for this world, or that the world needs more people like me, or something. But, if you’ll let me tell ya a secret, I’m not as great as everybody thinks. For one thing,” and here he leaned forward, “I’m a terrible liar.”

Stan looked up at Fiddleford there.

“It’s true.” Fiddleford grinned. “All these customers come in and they’re real rude to me or the other baristas. I tell them, ‘Hope you have a nice day!’ but ya know what?” He stopped playing and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I always secretly hope that they get stuck in traffic for an hour, or they spill their coffee on their suit, or they’re late for their date.” He shook his head and sat back again. “It’s dreadful of me.”

“Are you kidding?” Stan burst out laughing. “That’s the worst you’ve ever done? Buddy, I’m nineteen and I’ve been to prison! I’ve been banned from two states, I’ve shoplifted, I’ve sold drugs, I’ve been selling my body on the streets--hell, yesterday I killed two guys! And you’re saying that wordlessly wishing minor inconveniences on people is horrible?”

Fiddleford stared at Stan for a moment. Then, very seriously, he looked over the tops of his tiny round glasses and said, “Yes.”

And they both cracked up.

* * *

 

Ford came directly to his boyfriend’s apartment after classes, and was shocked to see that Fiddleford had somehow, miraculously, gotten Stan out of bed, eating food, watching television, and laughing. “Hello, you two,” he said, setting down his bag and shoving the pair over so he could sit between them. He leaned over to give his boyfriend a kiss, then nudged his twin. “You okay?”

“Nah. But I’ve been worse, so this is good.” Stan offered his brother a slight smile. “Your boyfriend can sing, by the way.”

Ford blushed. “I know.”

“He’s got a whole buncha cheesy songs written for ya.”

Ford blushed harder. “I  _ know. _ ”

“He--”

“Will you two  _ shut up? _ Gordon Ramsay is swearing at the couple and I want to hear what he’s saying!” Fiddleford exclaimed.

The twins fell silent, but kept exchanging awkward and companionable glances.

Everything definitely was  _ not _ okay, but things were looking as if they were going to be.

And really, in the grand scheme of things, that was all that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song snippets in here are entirely my own! Leave some kindness in the comments and feel free to visit fiddauthorcoffeeshop.tumblr.com for more content!

**Author's Note:**

> Leave some kindness in the comments and don't forget to keep up with the tumblr for updates and art!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [What Mine is Yours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9391103) by [EllenofX](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenofX/pseuds/EllenofX)




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